Between here and there, the land is flat.
The stretch dotted by broken fences and falling barns, wood naked from years unkempt in the rain bowing under the weight of roofs missing shingles. They fall, heavy animals no longer able to go on, their desolation somehow graceful.
And hope comes down the slope of a slight hill, a silo reaching for the cloudless sky. There are still small farms here, children playing out in the front yard when school's out of session.
But these sights can't keep my attention for long. I spill open my bag.
The road is surprisingly smooth for being a narrow two-lane snake of state highway, but I'd left my scissors at home, afraid they'd be taken away if my bag was searched. It remained in the car, intention taken by reality. The scraps are in there somewhere, too complicated for the mindless entertainment I require.
I feel like a reporter, chronicling every move. The visit. The ride. A stop at Sonic (my first; defiantly journal-worthy). What I see out the window, flying by as I head for home.
There is magic out here. A peace and simplicity my heart enjoys, but would soon bore of. I am a city mouse, needing dirty sidewalks, hole-in-the-wall coffee shops, three-story used bookstores with aisles so narrow, my shoulders brush spines on each side. I travel alone but am never lonely; conversation with strangers has always been easy for me, and I collect the stories like they're precious stones.
Out here, there are only phone lines dipping between poles, wide, waking fields, silos and chipped equipment. Beauty and amazement stretching far and wide, missed only as my attention returns to the journal, to the doodles and words and colors I apply.
The car drives closer to home.